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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23954794">Lost In Translation</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThetaSigma/pseuds/ThetaSigma'>ThetaSigma</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Good Omens (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aziraphale is not the fastest on the uptake, M/M, Other, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, they love each other so much guys</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-02 15:07:25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,935</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23954794</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThetaSigma/pseuds/ThetaSigma</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Aziraphale always assumes -- when he gives the matter any thought -- that all angels have this. His memories of Before The War are hazy at best, so he wasn’t quite sure if he had had this Before, but he does remember that he’s had it ever since the dust had settled and there was a definite After The War. </i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>  <i>On his hip, in angular, spiky handwriting, is the word Angel. In Enochian.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>Hence Aziraphale’s assumption, really. It identifies him as an angel; therefore, all angels must have this. A tattoo to let everyone know what side he ended up on (in case the white wings and general angelic aura weren’t enough, he supposes).</i></p><p> </p><p>  <i>It has to be said, at this point, that Aziraphale, for all that he is extremely smart, is also unbelievably stupid at times. </i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>32</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>255</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Lost In Translation</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">
      <li>For <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/tobeconspicuous/gifts">tobeconspicuous</a>.</li>



    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This is a gift for my very, very good friend, tobeconspicuous, who sent me the most delightful care package and this humble offering is seriously the best I can do. Also because she is an absolute delight at all times, and I would be a much sadder human being without her around. <i>Also</i> because like 6 months ago she asked me if I could do an Aziraphale/Crowley soulmate fic, and I went "yeah sounds fun" and then completely dropped the ball. I hope it was worth waiting six(plus?) months for!</p><p>This will surprise literally no one who's read my previous Good Omens fics, but the title came from my sister.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Aziraphale always assumes -- when he gives the matter any thought -- that all angels have this. His memories of Before The War are hazy at best, so he wasn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>quite</span>
  </em>
  <span> sure if he had had this Before, but he does remember that he’s had it ever since the dust had settled and there was a definite After The War. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>On his hip, in angular, spiky handwriting, is the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>Angel.</span>
  </em>
  <span> In Enochian.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hence Aziraphale’s assumption, really. It identifies him as an angel; therefore, all angels must have this. A tattoo to let everyone know what side he ended up on (in case the white wings and general angelic aura weren’t enough, he supposes).</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It has to be said, at this point, that Aziraphale, for all that he is extremely smart, is also unbelievably stupid at times. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The first time his tattoo flares with pleasant heat, Aziraphale is stunned. He’s run into Crawly for the first time since the Garden, and while he knows they’re hereditary enemies and meant to be thwarting and smiting each other, he’s actually quite pleased to see the demon. Crawly’s skepticism, cynicism, and sarcasm are a breath of fresh air after Heaven’s “smile at your face and stab you in the back” attitudes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crawly’s just drawled something characteristically sarcastic and added ‘Angel’ at the end. Aziraphale is so shocked by the tattoo (that he’s barely thought of for decades) flaring to life suddenly that he completely forgets what else Crawly said. It’s not a painful heat: it’s a gentle warmth that starts at the tattoo and spreads across his body, the tattoo staying a few degrees warmer. It’s like standing at a fire after coming in from the cold; it’s like sunbathing on a beautiful cloudless day at noon; it’s like being covered with another blanket when the chilly nights hit. It’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>lovely</span>
  </em>
  <span>, really.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When his heart rate slows again, Aziraphale decides it must be a general reaction to being called an angel. A reminder of who he is.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For several millennia, that explanation makes perfect sense to him. His tattoo flares to life rarely, only when he runs into Crawly and Crawly calls him an angel, but he reasons, no one else has called him ‘angel’ in all that time, so the fact that it’s Crawly is mere coincidence. He wishes more people would call him angel -- the warmth from the tattoo is so delightful. He treasures each and every time Crawly calls him that even more, since no one else will.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This explanation turns out to hold no water, unfortunately. Around the time of Jesus, someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>else</span>
  </em>
  <span> calls him angel, and his tattoo doesn’t so much as flicker with warmth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale reasons this through. The person who had called him angel this time had been a human. Perhaps the person calling him angel must have some magic of their own, some spark of the ethereal or occult. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As Aziraphale avoids Heaven as much as possible and Heaven avoids him just as much, and as demons don’t visit Earth if they can help it, and certainly don’t stop to chat with angels, it’s not a theory he can put to the test. Even when Gabriel </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> talk to him, he never calls Aziraphale ‘angel’.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s quite satisfied with this explanation. Rather perfectly reasoned. That new branch of human study, philosophy, was quite worth looking into.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Not much later, that theory is shot out of water, too. Michael had called him it -- admittedly, with a sneer and to point out how </span>
  <em>
    <span>unangelic</span>
  </em>
  <span> he was being by enjoying oysters* -- and his tattoo remained the same temperature as his body.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>*Oh, but the way Crawly -- no, Crowley -- had lit up with the invitation to lunch… The look on his face was almost as delightful as the warmth that spread through him when Crowley answered with, “Well, should kill a bit of time, eh, angel?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale reapplies logic to this. It doesn’t work if a human calls him angel. Therefore, it cannot be a simple reminder that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>is</span>
  </em>
  <span> an angel. It also doesn’t work if another angel calls him that (unless the failure there was the sarcasm, but no, even when Crowley had been sarcastic, the tattoo had flared. Strike that). So it isn’t just about having a spark of the ethereal or occult.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Perhaps it works </span>
  <em>
    <span>only</span>
  </em>
  <span> if a demon called him that. A warning that he was talking to one of Hell’s own, a trickster and tempter, someone to smite and thwart. A reminder that he can’t trust a word coming out of their mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Yes, that must be it. And it feels so pleasant to remind him of how wonderful Heaven is*.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>*Actually, he muses, the warmth from his tattoo is far </span>
  </em>
  <span>more</span>
  <em>
    <span> pleasant than Heaven. Heaven has always seemed rather cold and sterile to him, and the spark from his tattoo is anything but. It’s like the burn of alcohol in the back of his throat, tea at the perfect temperature, a good soup freshly made and served. Heaven has always felt more like the draught coming in under a door, the prickle in the air from an approaching thunderstorm, the sudden blast of frigidity from an unexpected wave in the ocean.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>If you were to compare Crowley and Aziraphale on paper, you’d think Aziraphale was the smarter one, hands-down. He’s been reading since humans invented writing. He’s jumped into any new branch of study they’ve come up with, attended symposia, even given a few lectures.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley, on the other hand, doesn’t read much. He attends a symposium only to wreak mischief and mayhem, and the only time he’ll talk to a crowd is when he’s selling Hell on his latest demonic plot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>However, Crowley’s always been a lot quicker on the uptake.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He never particularly examined his snake form when he was first cast out, so he noticed it first on the more standard bipedal form. On his hip, </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Foul Fiend’</span>
  </em>
  <span> in loopy cursive. In Enochian.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doubts it is to identify him or remind him of his status. After all, the big, black wings, serpent’s eyes, snake sigil, and general demonic aura are enough for that. It has to have </span>
  <em>
    <span>another</span>
  </em>
  <span> purpose, then. Unless it’s a coincidence, which really does seem doubtful.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It takes Aziraphale calling him ‘foul fiend’ once for Crowley to work it out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Warmth </span>
  <em>
    <span>spreads</span>
  </em>
  <span> through him, starting with the tattoo and rippling through his body. It feels like making a new star, spinning a galaxy, watching a comet speed by. It feels like the sun on his scales.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels like every time Aziraphale has smiled at him, and Crowley can only think </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘oh shit’</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He doesn’t know </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span> he knows, or why this is even possible. But he </span>
  <em>
    <span>knows</span>
  </em>
  <span> that his tattoo won’t flare to life like that for anyone else. It’s not about being called it, it won’t matter if a human or a demon or even another angel calls him that. It’s about </span>
  <em>
    <span>Aziraphale</span>
  </em>
  <span>, it’s telling him </span>
  <em>
    <span>Aziraphale</span>
  </em>
  <span> is somehow connected to him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Like a soulmate, he thinks. Which is a bit odd, given that he knows quite well that God hadn’t set up a soulmate system, but buggering fuck, as a cosmic joke, he bloody well </span>
  <em>
    <span>has</span>
  </em>
  <span> one, and the icing on the shit cake is that it’s a fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>angel</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Honestly, if it had been anyone but Aziraphale, he’d drown himself in holy water now. Aziraphale is the only good one of the lot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It only takes Crowley another meeting or two to realize that Aziraphale has </span>
  <em>
    <span>no idea</span>
  </em>
  <span> that they’re soulmates. He’s already worked out that it’s about their most common nickname for each other, and really, he’d eat a hat (not his, hats have never been cool and anyway, his hair is too awesome to hide) if the word tattooed on Aziraphale’s hip </span>
  <em>
    <span>isn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> angel. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Crowley’s tattoo changes, he’s actually shocked for a moment. It’s been </span>
  <em>
    <span>foul fiend</span>
  </em>
  <span> for over a millennium. But then again, Aziraphale hasn’t called him that in, oh, two centuries now, preferring to call him ‘wily serpent’... which is exactly what his tattoo changes to.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s changes several more times over the millennia. By the time of the Apocalypse-That-Couldn’t, it’s been ‘my dear’ for nearly four centuries.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The End Of the World has come and gone without the world ending in any significant way, and they’re at the Ritz, chatting idly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“‘Ziraphale,” Crowley almost slurs, “I think we need to either go back to your place or to mine, but I’m pretty sure we’re not supposed to pass out in the Ritz.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale takes a good look at him. “My dear,” he starts, and Crowley nearly moans the tattoo flaring to life. It just feels </span>
  <em>
    <span>so good</span>
  </em>
  <span>. “You look absolutely exhausted. Come on, back to the bookshop. You can nap on my couch.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Neither of them voice the thought that they don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> to stick together. Crowley can just as easily go back to his flat and sleep for a week. Aziraphale doesn’t want to let the demon out of his sight, not when the Holy Water Bath is so recent. Crowley feels the exact same way. He doesn’t think he </span>
  <em>
    <span>could</span>
  </em>
  <span> sleep if Aziraphale weren’t nearby. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When Crowley is settled onto the couch, drowsy and content, he mutters, “Thanks, angel. It’s been a rough week.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale isn’t shocked anymore by the flare of his tattoo -- if nothing else, they’ve spent 11 years seeing each other almost daily while raising Warlock. He finds the warmth as soothing as he did the first time. It feels like a warm bath at the end of a cold day, like a hug from a good friend.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s just drunk enough to mention it. He never has before, but the sheer giddiness of preventing the Apocalypse and surviving their executions has made him looser-lipped than usual. “Feels nice,” he slurs. “When you call me angel. All warm. My hip.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley is suddenly a </span>
  <em>
    <span>lot</span>
  </em>
  <span> more awake (and rather a bit more sober, too). “Your hip?” he asks cautiously. He had deliberately not looked at any of Aziraphale’s body while he was wearing it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Says ‘Angel’ on my hip,” Aziraphale says confidentially, leaning forward to whisper it. He’s very drunk. “And when you call me angel, it gets all warm. Like… like… like a warm thing. My dear, it’s delightful.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley wriggles a bit into the feeling from his own tattoo. “Angel,” he whispers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ooh, there it is again,” Aziraphale says with a blinding grin. He slumps into his chair a bit more, wriggling to get more comfortable. “Was so sad that it never worked when anyone else called me that. Must only work when demons do it.” He furrows his brow. “But… no, hang on, Beelzebub called me that, and it </span>
  <em>
    <span>still</span>
  </em>
  <span> didn’t do anything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley so desperately wants to shout, “Because we’re </span>
  <em>
    <span>soulmates</span>
  </em>
  <span>, you imbecile.” But he knows that Aziraphale needs to arrive at these conclusions himself; otherwise he won’t believe it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s just you,” Aziraphale says, and he looks only puzzled, not sad*.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>*If he had looked saddened by this, Crowley thinks he’d have died on the spot. Not discorporated, </span>
  </em>
  <span>died.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley weighs his options, tries to make a mental </span>
  <em>
    <span>pros and cons of telling Aziraphale</span>
  </em>
  <span> list, and gives up because he’s drunk and beyond exhausted. “I’ve got one too,” he slurs. “On my hip. Says ‘my dear’. Gets all warm when you call me my dear. Didn’t always say ‘my dear’. Was foul fiend for a bit, then wily serpent, then--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale cuts him off. “Is yours in Enochian too, my dear?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Yeah, always, all of them,” Crowley mumbles. He’s slipping back into half-asleep. He watches Aziraphale, who is frowning in concentration. Crowley knows he’s painstakingly working through the implications of this, applying logic to each idea and discarding it if it doesn’t fit the evidence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, “Does your tattoo ever come to life for anyone but me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Nah, s’only you. No matter what it says, s’only ever you.” He’s drunk and tired enough to admit to anything, and it’s only sheer willpower keeping him from mentioning the whole ‘soulmate’ thing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Neither of them say anything for minutes. The only sound in the bookshop is the ticking of a grandfather clock somewhere. Crowley starts slipping asleep; after all, he knows that even when Aziraphale has all the pieces of a puzzle, it can take him several hours to arrive at the correct conclusion. Might as well take a catnap in that time, he figures. He’s not entirely sure he could prevent himself from falling asleep at this point.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s most of the way asleep when Aziraphale says slowly, “I’d think it was about soulmates, but God didn’t set that up.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley manages to give a shrug. He feels like he should probably start paying attention again, but he’s too fucking tired.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“My dear,” Aziraphale says warmly. “Sleep. I’ll work through this and when you wake, we can talk about it again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley tries to form the words to protest. Something in him is telling him if he goes to sleep before Aziraphale works it out completely, they’ll never talk about it again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Crowley,” Aziraphale says sternly. “I won’t drop it just because I’m not drunk by the time you wake back up. Go to sleep. You need it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And Crowley lets himself fall asleep.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>***</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s not quite sure how long he’s been asleep. It’s morning now, but that could mean anywhere from 12 hours to 12 months. He hopes it wasn’t particularly long, because he </span>
  <em>
    <span>does</span>
  </em>
  <span> remember Aziraphale was working through the soulmate thing when he finally dropped off. He’s waited long enough, frankly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, good, you’re awake, my love,” Aziraphale says breezily, bustling in and handing him a cup of coffee that he definitely hadn’t been carrying a minute ago.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley sips the coffee, then sputters as his brain first catches up and then freezes up. “My love?” he croaks out, once he stops coughing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, rats,” Aziraphale says. “I’d rather hoped to present my findings more logically, not jump in straight at the deep end.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ngk,” Crowley manages. He chugs his coffee quickly. He has a feeling he wants to be completely alert for this conversation. Also, he has the feeling that if he’s still sipping at it when Aziraphale starts talking, he’ll choke on it again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Right, where was I going to start?” Aziraphale asks, sitting down in his armchair. “I spent quite a bit of time thinking about this while you were asleep, my dear.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley freezes. Partly because he wants to know, still, just how long he was asleep, but mainly because his tattoo doesn’t come to life when Aziraphale calls him ‘my dear’.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Buggering FUCK</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thinks, </span>
  <em>
    <span>it would fit the whole cosmic joke thing that the second Aziraphale figures it out, it </span>
  </em>
  <span>stops</span>
  <em>
    <span> happening.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He has to test it. “Angel, how long was I asleep?” Aziraphale’s eyes flutter shut for a second.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well, it’s still working for </span>
  </em>
  <span>him</span>
  <em>
    <span>, </span>
  </em>
  <span>Crowley thinks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, about a week, I’d say,” Aziraphale says. “So, as I was saying, I gave this quite a bit of thought. It only happens when you call me angel. Previously, I’d thought it would work for anyone, then I thought it would only work if an ethereal or occult force called me that, then I thought it must be a demon. Since all these explanations failed, I’ve arrived at the conclusion that it must </span>
  <em>
    <span>connect</span>
  </em>
  <span> us in some way. I think -- as strange and illogical as this may sound -- that we’re soulmates.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley has no idea what to say*.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>*This is not actually surprising. As much as he thinks himself a silver-tongued charmer, he’s really not. Especially where Aziraphale is concerned.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s face falls a bit. “Oh,” he says. “You figured that out already, didn’t you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley reluctantly nods. “I… well… maybe, a bit, yes?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale gives him a stern look. “How long ago did you figure it out, Crowley?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mmbefrmlinego,” Crowley mumbles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Crowley.”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“About four millennia ago,” Crowley says slightly more distinctly, although not much louder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And you never </span>
  <em>
    <span>said?”</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Would you have </span>
  <em>
    <span>believed</span>
  </em>
  <span> me if I did, angel?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale’s eyes flutter for a second, then he looks just… sad. “First, that’s unfair, using the name! I’ve been avoiding calling you yours during this, you know, so I don’t derail this. And second… have I really been so awful?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, no, not at all!” He’s glared at. “You’ve been a little untrusting,” he amends. “But I am a demon. I understand.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Crowley</span>
  </em>
  <span>. My darling, my dear, I am </span>
  <em>
    <span>so sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” Aziraphale says, coming to sit next to Crowley and holding his hand.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley frowns. The mark didn’t so much as flicker, again. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dear? What’s wrong?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The mark,” Crowley says reluctantly. “It didn’t do anything. Twice now you’ve called me ‘my dear’, and it has done </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They stare at each other. “Was I wrong? Were </span>
  <em>
    <span>we</span>
  </em>
  <span> wrong?” Aziraphale asks. “But when you call me ‘angel’, it still heats. Why is it not working for you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley doesn’t want to say it. But he does, forcing out, “Maybe we were wrong. Maybe it had nothing to do with soulmates.” It feels worse than falling. He had lost something more nebulous then; this time, it’s the very real loss of his best friend, his love, his… well, apparently </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> soulmate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t care,” Aziraphale says firmly. “I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” he adds, fiercely, when Crowley opens his mouth to object. “You are</span>
  <em>
    <span> so </span>
  </em>
  <span>precious to me, and I don’t care if it isn’t some ineffable connection, because I have loved you for </span>
  <em>
    <span>you</span>
  </em>
  <span> for millennia, and not because of some silly mark I didn’t know the purpose of. I love you for the way you think, the way you care more than Heaven ever did about the humans -- shush, we’re on our own side, I can say it now, both that I love you for it and that you </span>
  <em>
    <span>do</span>
  </em>
  <span> care -- I love you for the mischievous tricks you pull. I love you for your hip-swinging walk and your hairdos and the smile you give me when you think I’m not looking. I love you for the way you always think of me, even when I’ve pushed you away, and I am so </span>
  <em>
    <span>sorry</span>
  </em>
  <span> for ever having done so, for ever having doubted you, because you may have been the Black Knight but darling, you have always been my knight in shining armour.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley’s eyes are definitely not watery. He’s too cool to start crying just because the angel he’s pined for for 6,000 years loves him back and is currently listing all the reasons why. He definitely is too cool and some asshole is probably chopping onions in the bookshop or something. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale ignores it completely, choosing instead to keep listing reasons he loves Crowley. “I loved you when you appeared in the Bastille, and I loved you when I invited you for oysters, and I loved you when you got angry about the flood, and I loved you when you hopped into a church to rescue me, and I loved you when you made Hamlet a success because I asked, and… Crowley, I have loved you so long I cannot think when it started, I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span>, but I don’t care, I </span>
  <em>
    <span>don’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>, that we were wrong about these stupid marks, because it means </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> to me. I want to love you as you are meant to be for the next 6,000 years because I couldn’t for our first 6,000, and after that I rather think we should keep on that path.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He freezes. “Unless… Am I wrong, Crowley, that you love me? Oh, dear, I might have embarrassed myself tremendously here…”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley puts his finger against Aziraphale’s lips to silence him (and would wonder at his bravery if he had even stopped to think about it). “If you press me to say why I loved him, I can say no more than because he was he and I was I.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale frowns at him. “Are you stealing de Montaigne’s lines?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He stole it first,” Crowley protests. “I said it about you </span>
  <em>
    <span>then</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he just went and stole it. Bloody French bastards. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Not</span>
  </em>
  <span> the point, angel. I’ve loved you since you said you gave away the flaming sword. Every time I met you, I just loved you more.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale doesn’t mention that his tattoo flared again when Crowley called him ‘angel’. It seems exceptionally unfair that it still works for him, as much as he enjoys (as he always has) the sensation.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley knows anyway that it did. He doesn’t care that it’s unfair. He’s long been accustomed to life being bloody </span>
  <em>
    <span>fucking</span>
  </em>
  <span> unfair, thank you, and he doesn’t see why he should be surprised that this is any different*. He’s just happy that it still works for Aziraphale. He remembers** that it felt fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>amazing</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he could never begrudge Aziraphale any moment of delight***.. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>*He is still, understandably, more than a bit ticked off he Fell (or, as he prefers to put it, sauntered vaguely downwards). As far as he can tell, his great sin was questioning, and he’s rather pissed that any omnipotent being would give him curiosity and then punish him for it. Nothing about that seemed </span>
  </em>
  <span>fair, </span>
  <em>
    <span>and if he had had any lingering ideas about fairness following </span>
  </em>
  <span>that, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hell would have beat that out of him quickly. </span>
  </em>
  
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>**Bitterly, he thinks that most of the pleasant things to have happened to him are destined to be memories. Not that he’s bitter. Not at all. Heaven sucked balls, anyway. His most recent visit as Aziraphale only solidified that.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>***He knows he’s the demon who was cast out of Heaven and all that, but he’s not actually sure Aziraphale had ever had it better. Always carefully toeing the line, always looking over his shoulder. He would never be jealous of of a moment of delight Aziraphale manages to grab. It’s why he loves to watch Aziraphale eat.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Angel,” he says deliberately, falling seamlessly into the rhythm of Aziraphale enjoying something and Crowley enjoying him enjoying it. “I don’t care that it works for you and not me. I don’t. I... ” Words fail him. He doesn’t know how to express all that he’s feeling, from ‘you’re the most important thing, to me’ to ‘I always want you to be happy’ to ‘what does it matter if I don’t have everything when you do’.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Luckily, Aziraphale understands him anyway. “Crowley,” he says, “I’d very much like to kiss you now, because I feel as if we have waited all of recorded time -- perhaps because we </span>
  <em>
    <span>have</span>
  </em>
  <span> -- and I am not entirely sure I can handle waiting much longer. Unless you are not amenable, in which case--”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He is cut off by Crowley kissing him to shut him up. Neither of them have </span>
  <em>
    <span>much</span>
  </em>
  <span> to compare it to, but it is fucking </span>
  <em>
    <span>perfect.</span>
  </em>
  <span> It is chaste, a tender press of lips, and absolutely the most perfect thing either have ever experienced.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Aziraphale sighs when they part. “Oh… I refuse to wait 6,000 more years for another such kiss.” He smiles at Crowley and sees it mirrored back. “But I must say, it was worth the wait, my love.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Crowley </span>
  <em>
    <span>melts</span>
  </em>
  <span> into Aziraphale. He is speechless, his mouth working but no sounds emerging. Aziraphale looks puzzled, but Crowley is simply </span>
  <em>
    <span>unable</span>
  </em>
  <span> to explain for a (rather long) moment, though eventually he manages.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The connection </span>
  <em>
    <span>hadn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span> disappeared. Crowley’s tattoo had simply </span>
  <em>
    <span>changed</span>
  </em>
  <span> again. The heat floods him again with Aziraphale’s “my love”. It feels like flying. It feels like Aziraphale’s love. It feels like their first kiss.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It feels like coming home.</span>
</p>
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